


Tweety

by niniblack



Category: Glee
Genre: Crack, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-30
Updated: 2010-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:56:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niniblack/pseuds/niniblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt and Finn aren't allowed to have pets. Also, this is pure crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tweety

**Author's Note:**

> After watching [this clip](http://www.wat.tv/video/glee-2x09-special-education-37urf_2exyz_.html) from 2.09, I really couldn't help it. I'm sorry, Pavarotti. I'm _so_ sorry. Also, the timeline for this fic makes no sense at all. WHATEVS.

When Wes had said that the bird represented his voice, Kurt hadn’t really believed him. The entire “this bird’s lineage dates back to eighteen hundred” thing had sounded like nothing but pretentious bullshit. It wasn't a big deal though; the bird was just a mild annoyance during Kurt’s first week at Dalton. Blaine came by every morning to walk Kurt to class and fed the bird while he was there, so Kurt really didn’t give it any thought. In fact, when his dad came to pick him up for Thanksgiving break he very nearly left the bird behind. His roommate, Eddie, noticed he’d forgotten and texted him. Luckily they’d only been about five minutes away and his dad hadn’t complained _too_ much about turning around. Kurt had tried to explain about the ancient bird legacy and how he’d been entrusted with its care, but his dad had just said he really didn’t want to know about whatever hazing ritual Kurt was being subjected to. At this point he was out of money and fancy private schools with no bullies to transfer Kurt to.

Kurt would have considered the bird's incessant squawking during the two hour drive to Lima karma for that comment if it hadn't been so _annoying_.

Kurt's move to an expensive boarding school meant that finding a house with more bedrooms was no longer a top priority. This also meant that when he was home, he was sharing a room with Finn. A room that Kurt had decorated and organized to exacting specifications and that was now _covered_ in Finn's dirty laundry. There was a poster of a half-naked woman on his wall. Oh God.

Kurt had managed to sanitize his half of the room again by the time Finn got home. Finn, for his part, didn't even notice how clean everything was. He zeroed in on the bird.

"Awesome! You got a bird," he said, leaning down to get a better look. "What's its name?"

"Um..." Kurt tried to remember what Blaine kept calling the bird. Something with a B? A P maybe?

"Can we name him Tweety?" Finn asked excitedly.

"Sure," said Kurt.

"Hi Tweety," Finn waved at the bird. Tweety chirped back him. "I think he likes me," Finn said.

Over the next couple of days, Finn and Tweety became best friends. Tweety's cage seemed at home on Finn's desk amid an array of crumbs and empty pop cans in a way that it never had when sitting on the special stand Kurt had purchased for it. Finn kept carrying Tweety and his cage upstairs to watch shows on the big TV ("So he can see better."), and even took him over to Rachel's house one afternoon. Rachel had apparently tried to set Tweety free and given Finn a lecture about animal cruelty, so she was no longer allowed within ten feet of Tweety. Kurt was in the middle of trying to devise a plan on how to leave Tweety behind when it came time to return to Dalton when they woke up Thanksgiving morning and found the bird lying at the bottom of its cage, dead.

"You fed him glitter, didn't you?" Finn accused, once the entire family had gathered around the table. Tweety and his cage sat in the middle, like the most morbid centerpiece ever.

"I didn't!" Kurt said. "I swear."

"I don't believe you," Finn said, crossing his arms. "You must've killed at least ten of those doves trying to feed them glitter."

"It was an experiment. They were an unfortunate loss."

"You fed doves _glitter_?" Carole asked incredulously.

"Only a little bit," Kurt said.

Carole just stared.

"I can't _believe_ you killed Tweety," Finn said. He looked close to tears.

"I didn't kill him," Kurt insisted.

"Yes, you did!"

"No, I didn't!"

Finally Burt cut in, "We'll take him to vet and find out what killed him, alright? Stop fighting over it already."

The only vet open on Thanksgiving was the emergency vet. He didn’t quite understand why the Hudson-Hummels were so insistent that he take a look at a dead bird, but was happy to take their money anyway. The prognosis: Tweety starved to death.

"Which one of you was supposed to feed him?" Burt demanded.

"Kurt," Finn said, at the same time that Kurt said, "Blaine."

Burt took a deep breath. "Blaine wasn't here to feed him, Kurt. Blaine is at his own house."

"Oh," Kurt said, thinking about that for a moment. That meant _he_ should have been the one feeding Tweety. Which meant _he_ was the reason Tweety had been lying at the bottom of his cage, dead. From _hunger_.

Kurt started crying. "I didn't _mean_ to kill him!" he wailed. "I'm sorry!"

Finn patted his back, sniffling with him. "It's okay Kurt. Tweety knows you didn't mean it."

"How does he know? He's _dead_."

"Birds are smart like that."

"Really?" Kurt asked.

"Totally," Finn nodded.

"We are never getting a pet," Carole told Burt, watching them.

After they got home, Kurt knew he had to tell Blaine what had happened to the bird. The text he sent Blaine looked like this: Hypothetically, what would happen if that bird Wes gave me were to escape?

The text he received in reply, thirty seconds later, looked like this: WHAT DID YOU DO TO PAVAROTTI???!!!!!

Oh, Kurt thought. _Pavarotti_. That had been its name. No wonder he hadn't been able to remember that. Tweety had suited the bird much better. His phone started playing the chorus of Teenage Dream while he was still reading Blaine's text. He debated not answering, but that would just make him look guiltier.

"What did you do?" Blaine asked.

"Happy Thanksgiving to you to," Kurt said.

“Kurt.”

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Kurt insisted. And he hadn’t. That was problem, after all.

“So Pavarotti is fine?” Blaine asked.

Kurt bit his lip. “Um…”

“Kurt!”

“I didn’t _mean_ to kill him,” Kurt cried for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.

“I can’t believe you killed Pavarotti!” Blaine yelled. Kurt yanked the phone away from his ear, wincing. When he tentatively brought it back to his ear, Blaine was calmer. “It’s okay,” he said. “We can fix this.”

“You know how to revive birds?” Kurt asked. “’Cos he’s been dead for a while now and we left him at the vet’s office. I don’t know what the vet did with him, but he might give him back if I call.”

“…No, I can’t bring him back to life. But I’m flattered that you thought I could.” Blaine couldn’t see it (thank goodness), but Kurt was blushing. “I’ll come up with something though,” he promised. “I’ll pick you up on Sunday, alright?”

“Okay.”

Blaine picked up Kurt, Kurt’s luggage (“You were only home for a week, why do you have three suitcases?”), and Tweety’s empty cage on Sunday morning. “I found a pet store that was willing to email me a picture of their bird selection. They have one that is an exact match for Pavarotti.”

“Tweety,” Kurt corrected.

Blaine risked looking away from the road to give him an incredulous stare. “Finn renamed him Tweety. It suited him better,” Kurt explained.

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” Blaine said.

Tweety 2.0 looked exactly like the original Tweety. They were both small, yellow, and chirped a lot. Kurt tilted his head and balanced the cage on the dash as he regarded Tweety 2.0. “I’m not sure this is going to work,” he told Blaine.

“Of course it will work,” Blaine said, trying to find a parking space. “He looks exactly the same. Just don’t tell anyone else you killed the first bird, the bird that came from an _unbroken line of canaries_ that have been at Dalton since _eighteen ninety-one_.”

“I really didn’t mean to kill him,” Kurt said sadly, poking a finger into Tweety 2.0’s cage. Privately, he was convinced that he was _not_ the first to replace their pretentious Dalton bird with a pet-store bird.

Blaine sighed. “I know you didn’t. It’s okay. I’ll come by and remind you to feed him every morning. And for Christmas break, _I’ll_ take him home, okay?”

Kurt smiled at him. “You’re the best.”

“Just stop calling him Tweety, for the love of God. His name is _Pavarotti_.”  



End file.
